


A Mistake

by DrFish



Series: Caring John Short Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring John, Doctor John Watson, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Recovery, Sick Character, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFish/pseuds/DrFish
Summary: Sherlock makes some poor choices, but John is there for him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Caring John Short Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927600
Comments: 3
Kudos: 68





	A Mistake

John passed through the glass revolving door and into the lobby of the private hospital. He traversed the shiny marble floor and approached the professionally dressed woman seated at the polished oak reception desk. She looked up from her computer with bright, intelligent eyes as he began to speak.

"My name's John Watson. I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, Dr. Watson, we've been expecting you." The lady motioned to the bank of elevators to John's left. "Take the elevator up to the 6th floor and a member of the staff will meet you there."

John thanked her. As he headed towards the elevator, he heard her pick up the phone and speak several words, undoubtedly to inform the 'staff' on the 6th floor of his arrival.

John had just finished an early shift at the clinic and was walking to the tube station when he received a text message from Mycroft. Per usual, it had been to the point and obviously composed on the assumption that John would scramble to comply. _Drugs again. Meet me at Salve Regina Psychiatric Hospital to discuss Sherlock's future. -MH_

The first thing John felt was a drop in his stomach. He knew Sherlock was a recovering addict: a relapse was disappointing, but not unexpected.

The second thing he felt was pissed off at Mycroft. _That cocky, presumptuous twit,_ John thought to himself. It wasn't Mycroft's place to micromanage his brother's life. Sherlock was a grown man who had to be responsible for himself. From what John had seen, Sherlock was more than capable. Maybe he just needed more compassion and less judgement from the people who loved him. 

John hurried to the hospital. He wanted to see Sherlock, make sure he was OK, find out what happened and do what he could to support him. Also, John wanted to protect him from whatever Draconian measures Mycroft was considering. He tried not to let his mind run away, but he couldn't help but wonder: what? when? Had he missed any signs? Things had been going smoothly, Sherlock had cases on and off and he was sometimes a little bored and stroppy on days when John had work, but nothing seemed amiss. In fact, Sherlock had been on a case for several days. The two flatmates passed only briefly, like ships in the night. John was busy with his own work at the clinic, besides, Sherlock assured him it was a 3 and he could better handle it himself. The detective had been typing on his laptop at the kitchen table early that morning just as John was leaving for work. 

The elevator doors slid open with a ding of the bell to reveal an older woman wearing a long white coat over a bespoke dark gray skirt suit. She smiled falsely at John.

"Dr. Watson, I presume?"

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes notified me."

"I am Dr. Selene Parkinson, I've worked with the Holmes family and Sherlock for many years. Come this way," she motioned down the corridor and John walked alongside her as she began to explain. "His landlady called EMS a few hours ago. He was unconscious, but he responded favorably to Narcan. He was compliant up until we tried to draw a blood sample, now he's agitated and acting erratically." She swiped her ID card to unlock a set of double doors before leading them further down the corridor. They came upon 5 or 6 men, all dressed in scrubs, standing patiently against the wall of the corridor opposite a closed door. Two doctors stood talking between themselves, pausing to peer in through the small window in the door. Before reaching the group, Dr. Parkinson led them into an adjacent alcove that served as a nurse's station.

Mycroft Holmes stood primly, his three-piece suit buttoned, his fine leather shoes shined, and his umbrella held elegantly like a cane. The man always looked like he was posing for some sort of menswear advertisement. It was so pretentious and irritating. He acknowledged John with a nod of his head before motioning to a color monitor on the standing-height desk.

"Glad you could join us, doctor, as you can see, Sherlock is acting poorly."

On the screen was the high definition color image of a simple hospital room: shiny white vinyl floors, an empty hospital bed, various monitoring equipment on the wall above the bed, no windows. The corner of the door was visible at the left of the screen and John figured it was the next room where the doctors and orderlies had congregated. Sherlock, shirtless and barefoot, wearing his blue pajama bottoms, was standing motionless pressed against the wall opposite the door. A thin trail of blood ran down the ivory skin of his right forearm. No one else was visible in the room.

"Doctors, hold action and await further instruction, please," Dr. Parkinson addressed the men in the corridor from where she stood in the doorway before returning her attention to Mycroft and John. 

John didn't know what part of the whole scene irritated him more. Mycroft, being his usual dramatic, overbearing self, or Sherlock, probably high as a kite, looking like a cornered animal ready to fight off an attack.

John addressed Mycroft, doing his best to stay level. Mycroft could be insufferable, but John had to remind himself that he really did just want the best for his little brother, even if he went about it poorly from time to time. "Mind telling me what's going on?"

"Sherlock has obviously experienced a relapse. He has not told us what he took and is refusing to provide a blood sample. The A&E staff had him cannulated, but once he realized he was transferred here, he assaulted a doctor and ripped the cannula out before a blood sample could be drawn. The staff here are accustomed to reacting to this sort of thing and are about to storm the room and overwhelm him with force."

"Storm the room? Are you serious, Mycroft? Have you tried talking to him?" John asked.

Mycroft responded with a dramatic, put-upon eye roll. "Sherlock's antics are predictible. No amount of conversation will change his behavior. Dr. Parkinson," Mycroft addressed the other doctor, "are you ready with the sedatives? I'd like to have him subdued as soon as possible."

Before Dr. Parkinson could respond, John had stepped up to Mycroft, coming as close into the man's space as he could, given the elder Holmes' considerable height.

"Listen, Mycroft, it's about time you started treating your brother like a grown-up. He's not a child needing you to mind him and not a wild animal needing handling. Let me in with him. Alone. I'll see what I can do."

Mycroft's facial expression betrayed a hint of surprise at John's assertion, but then returned to the practiced facade with lightning speed. He motioned towards the door where Dr. Parkinson stood patiently. "By all means, Dr. Watson."

John slid past Dr. Parkinson and quickly covered the few steps down the corridor. The doctors blocking the door stood aside. John pulled the door open and stepped inside. He waited for the door to shut behind him.

The room was quiet, save for the heavy sounds of Sherlock's breathing. His gorgeous green-grey eyes were dilated too wide for the light in the room and John could see a thin sheen of sweat across his narrow, hairless chest. Sherlock stood with both hands clenched, arms at his side, feet planted, knees bent slightly, shaking minutely. In fact, he hadn't looked it on the computer monitor, but now that he was seeing him in person, the younger man appeared exhausted. There were heavy shadows marking the usually pale skin beneath his eyes.

Sherlock watched John expectantly. The intelligent spark was still there in his eyes, obviously he recognized John and was simply waiting to see what the doctor would do or say.

John stepped forward and put out his hand, palm up. "Sherlock, come here please, let me take care of you."

Sherlock seemed to consider it for a moment, then stepped forward, putting his hand into John's and allowing himself to be led over to the bed. He sat down on the edge and John began a brief exam, checking the reactivity of his pupils, palpating around the bones of his face and scalp to check for breaks or bruises, and finally raising each pale arm to search for injection marks and survey the damage. He saw none that were obvious: his left arm was riddled with old track marks of scarred tissue, he right was streamed with drying blood from the hastily pulled cannula.

He put Sherlock's arms back down to rest in his lap and steadied him by the shoulders, lowering his face just a little so he could make eye contact with Sherlock. "Let's take this one step at a time, OK?"

Sherlock looked so tired, he wasn't showing any signs of anxiety or discomfort towards John. He just nodded in agreement.

"Can the nurses come in and get you cleaned up a bit?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously.

"Will you let me do it?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, then nodded.

"Alright. I have to ask for supplies to be brought in, but they won't touch you for now, just me, OK?"

Sherlock nodded again.

As if on cue, there was a gentle knock on the door before it swung open, startling Sherlock slightly as a woman nurse entered holding a shallow basin of supplies, including gauze pads, a bottle of saline, alcohol swabs, an IV cannula kit, a blood draw kit with 3 labeled tubes, and a bag of IV solution. She handed the basin to John who put it on the bed next to Sherlock. She went to the boxes of gloves on the wall, pulled two from the large box, and returned to John. Avoiding Sherlock's stare, she held the glove up for John to slip each hand into (clever, since he didn't want to leave the room to wash up), then she gracefully left without a word.

Once they were alone again, John set about cleaning the bleeding IV site on Sherlock's right arm with an alcohol swab, covered the cut with a folded piece of fresh gauze, and taped it into place with med tape. He spoke as he continued to clean the mostly dried blood from the rest of Sherlock's arm.

"Tell me what happened, Sherlock."

Sherlock cleared his throat, considering his words.

"It was a mistake. I'm sorry, John. I was on the Joseph Burnside case. His wife swore she saw him disguised as a homeless man outside a council flat in Camden, but he ran before she could talk to him. I was investigating. I found the drug house pretty easily, but I needed to stay there for a few days, stay alert, maintain surveillance, you understand. So, in disguise, obviously. It seemed like a good idea at the time," he trailed off with a shrug.

"Right, can you tell me exactly what, when, and how much?"

"Cocaine. I only bought a gram, 3 days ago. Maybe. I was using what they had in-house. It wasn't very clean. Probably contaminated with meth," Sherlock paused, "I found Mrs. Burnside's husband. He's actually running the operation. Not a particularly interesting scheme, but, anyway," Sherlock refocused, "After the case was solved, yesterday, I think, I tried to get some work done. You know, take advantage of the... situation... it's been awhile. But, that wasn't very good cocaine, and like I said, there was probably meth in it. Nasty stuff, I shouldn't have reacted quite so strongly to a few lines..." Sherlock glanced up, momentarily making eye contact with John.

John knew what was coming next, but he prompted Sherlock gently to go on. "And then what?"

Sherlock bit his lips and sighed. "Heroine."

John nodded, his eyes automatically flashing down to Sherlock's left arm. As if reading his mind, Sherlock added, "My groin, John," he paused, but then continued sheepishly, "I was worried you'd see."

John nodded and let the moment linger briefly. "How much heroine?"

"A twentieth of a gram."

"Anything else?" 

Sherlock looked John in the eye, then looked away.

"That's it, John. I'm telling you the truth. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me, Sherlock," John considered his words carefully, "but I'm thankful you're alright. That could have gone much worse. And thank you for being honest with me."

Sherlock dropped his gaze, looking suitably repentant. He looked wrecked, exhausted. His head and eyelids were sagging. John wanted him at the hospital for at least several hours. He understood a slip-up like this was deadly for a lot of recovering addicts. Sherlock had been sober for months? years? then he hit his system first with a severe stimulant then tried to calm the high with an opioid. It was like whiplash to the body. Not good.

"I'm... scared, John. I don't want to go back to rehab, but that was the agreement, with Mycroft. If I was caught using..." Sherlock's eyes seemed to overflow with worry.

"Here, Love," John let the endearment slip, "one step at a time. Lie back and rest for now." He helped Sherlock turn to put his legs up on the bed and lean against the raised head. He grabbed the neatly folded hospital gown that was on the foot of the bed and helped Sherlock slip it onto his arms, covering his bare chest. John pulled the blanket up over Sherlock's lap.

"We'll get an IV in, get you some fluids, and I need to collect a blood sample," John said matter-of-factly as he reached for the cannulation kit. Sherlock watched impassively as John worked, finding an unscarred vein lower down his forearm. "Quick scratch," he said, as he pierced the vein with the needle. He filled the blood sample tubes, setting them aside in the basin the nurse had brought in, then connected the IV tubing to a bag of saline solution and hung it on the hook on the wall above the bed. He reconnected the pulse-ox, blood pressure cuff, and EKG electrodes, adjusting the monitoring settings and alarms. He raised the rail on the side of the bed, then lowered the head flat, helping Sherlock get a bit more comfortable with a pillow. He pulled the gloves off and deposited them in the basin of supplies, which he put aside on the small table next to the bed. He fetched the chair from across the room, placed it next to Sherlock's bed, and sat down.

"John, I want to go home," Sherlock said. He looked small in the hospital bed.

"I know, Sherlock. Rest here first, OK? Mycroft wants to help you, and I do too, and I know you don't want to go to rehab, so you'll need a plan for when we get back to Baker Street. But rest now, we'll figure that out later."

Sherlock sighed, his worried eyes turning questioningly towards John. "You'll stay with me?" he asked.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'll be right here."

Sherlock gave a weak smile but said nothing more, turning on his side in bed, facing John, to get more comfortable, his dark curls splayed on the white pillowcase. He settled in, closed his eyes, and his breathing eventually evened out. John sat quietly, finally relaxing in his chair, as he watched the IV drip and the monitors. He was thankful for this quiet moment with his friend and thankful Mycroft and the other doctors had given him that space. Sherlock was going to have a tough couple of days, but John would help him through it. Together. Deep down, John knew that things were going to be OK.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come visit me on Tumblr!!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


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